A dozen or so rough and tired looking Gondorians slumped into chairs surrounding a crude wooden table that nearly filled the small side chamber. Mardil, seated at the head, signaled to a waiting servant and soon the table was set with food and drink.

After the men had finished eating, Mardil rose and addressed them. "You have all performed your tasks admirably. When this crisis is passed and the need for secrecy is gone, your names will be known and honored throughout Gondor."

The men smiled grimly in acknowledgement. The man at the opposite end of the table rose and bowed to Mardil, and answered, "We thank you for your words, Lord. But know that you would have our service without promise of glory to come, or even the silver pieces that you provide as compensation for our efforts. The cause itself is worthy of all toil, and it is honor enough to play a part in ridding Gondor of injustice and evil."

The other men raised their glasses and let out a hearty "Aye!" and drank. Mardil nodded to the speaker. "You and the men of your house are true Gondorians, Bergil III. A happy day it was that King Elessar released Beregond from his service to be a blessing to the House of Stewards."

At that moment a messenger entered, bowed, and spoke to Mardil. "Your father sends his greetings and wishes to inform you that your wife and son are in good health. He also requests a word on the status of the plan."

"You may tell my father that all but one of my team of smugglers has returned. The one who was captured was apprehended entering Mordor, but was caught with nothing but the clothes on his back. He is loyal, and will not utter a word of our plan. And even if he does, it is too late for Roggie, the Blue Istari, or anyone else to stop us now. Operation Vaccine is nearly complete!" declared Mardil.

The messenger bowed again and exited the chamber.

"How soon will the final phase begin, Lord?" asked Bergil.

"When you and those under your command complete your final run into Mordor, I will announce a date for the... procedure," answered Mardil. "All the preparations are made. You have the final list, don't you?" Bergil nodded. "How long do you think this smuggling run will take? Six days?"

"That would be my estimate, sir," answered Bergil.

"Good," said Mardil, smiling in approval. "Go ahead and rest for the remainder of the day. My men will see that you have all the equipment and provender you need for the journey. You leave with the rising of the sun."

Roggie was less than happy to be called from his steam sauna (originally a shower) to interrogate a political prisoner. He was willing to stake his power on the fact that he'd initially had others hired to do such things. However with Alli gone, the palace in regular motion, war on the brink...

He grumbled as he stalked into the dungeons.

"Man of Gondor, why are you in my country?" The prisoner did not respond, choosing rather to stare at the floor.

One of Roggie's representatives met his lord's eyes and spoke. "He carries nothing but that which is on his back, and this, m'lord."

He handed Roggie the spy's weapon, a beautifully crafted sword. Roggie inspected it with an eye for detail and spoke angrily. "What is your name, Ranger, and what is your business?"

The man did not speak.

Roggie demanded more harshly, leaning in to allow his own heat to draw sweat from the prisoner's brow. The man's discomfort was obvious. Roggie let a small ball of flame kindle within him, threatening. The man's eyes widened, but he did not speak. Even afraid, he was calm.

Roggie scorched the floor around his feet and the man cried out, "No!"

Roggie gestured violently, knocking his enemy's spy to the floor.

"Strip him," he said impatiently, "and find out what of his pretty little toes so delights him."

Roggie's guards were more than glad to find work, having been out of it so long. With Alli gone, their jobs had been to shuffle papers and look busy. One spoke again, hesitantly. "My lord, he said before you came, 'Rest assured that neither I nor my Lord wish to harm you or Mordorian citizens, but I cannot name my errand.' That is when we came for you. You know we would never normally bother you with such trifles..."

The Lord of Mordor grumbled, kindling slightly. He watched impatiently as the man's boots were removed. The man did not struggle, though he might have.

"My Lord!" cried one searcher, "he carries papers!"

Roggie did not touch them for fear of igniting them, but chose rather for the man who had found them to list their contents. If Gondor knew, so could his own men... whatever the contents.

They questioned the Ranger, yet he refused to divulge his secret, though his name was given almost freely.

"Bergil," Roggie growled. "I have heard of you in my court."

After ordering Bergil to the dungeons for a prolonged period of uncertain incarceration with inattentive guards and less attentive cooks, Roggie disappeared to his chambers to mull.

Upon his desk he found a neatly printed letter, possibly from Lola, though it was uncertain. He had not seen her in a rather long time and had never quite learned to differentiate between her writing and anybody else's.

The sounds of his anger could be heard throughout the palace after he read that Mardil II had declared a Gondorian holiday for the following day, and that every person in the kingdom of Gondor was to travel to the nearest population center.

Roggie feared some dire stroke, but could not think what Mardil could possibly be hoping to achieve.

This post ended, consequently, on an uncertain note, with a smoking King of Mordor fuming in many literal ways within his study.

Mardil II looked up from his desk as his father, Denethor IV, entered the room. "We've been expecting you to join us for some time, son," said Denethor. "Are you almost finished? The entire household is ready to join the holiday throng."

"Yes, yes... I'm just finishing my instructions to Bregor and Gundor. They'll be leaving in the morning." Mardil dipped his quill into a bottle of ink and continued writing.

Denethor sighed and sat down across from Mardil. "So, you still think you can work with him?"

"Yes."

Denethor shook his head. "He's a balrog, Mardil. A BALROG! Nothing good has ever come from his kind. He can't be trusted. You ought- "

"You say he's not wholly evil, Mardil, but the fact remains that he is moody, aggressive, unreasonable, and is easily upset," argued Denethor. "I'm telling you, you can't deal with someone like that."

Mardil laid his quill aside, pushed his chair back, and rose to his feet. "You forgot one thing, father- Alli. She can deal with Roggie, and talk sense into him when no one else can. All I have to do is make her see the benefits of cooperation, and she will see that Roggie complies for his own good as well as hers."

"Oh, sure, Alli will be great help until the day that, in a fit of rage, Roggie squashes her and fries her to a crisp," retorted Denethor.

"That's never going to happen!" returned Mardil. "I've seen them together. Roggie would never hurt her. Maybe others, but not her."

Denethor stood, walked around the table, and placed his hands on his son's shoulders. "So, you truly believe in Alli's ability to influence Roggie enough to risk the lives of your two most loyal servants?"

"Yes," answered Mardil without hesitation. "And surely my willingness to entrust Roggie with the lives of my men will convince him further that I wish to work with him, and not against him."

Denethor squeezed Mardil's shoulders and smiled. "You are firm in your beliefs- just the way a King should be."

**********

All across the kingdom, in town after town, the residents of Gondor gazed in wonder at drawings and descriptions of anachronisms of all shapes and sizes. The collection of anachronisms was huge- the result of many many smuggling runs by Bergil and company. The rest of the collection was furnished by King Mardil himself, who had spent countless days and nights writing about the various anachronisms he saw during his stay in Mordor.

Slowly and surely, the entire population of Gondor was being vaccinated against the weakening dweomer. For, as Anakron had told Mardil behind closed doors, once an anachronism becomes commonly known in the real and present world, it loses its anachronistic power.

New assignments to Mordor fell to almost nothing overnight. The evil curse of the Blue Wizards was being undone. Roggie's realm was no longer growing.

Smilog shivered and cowered below a tombstone. He looked at his blooded hands, shaking uncontrollably. He fought the tears that were welling in his eyes but he could not stop it. A thin hand gripped his shoulder and he yelped.

"Come along, old bean," said a kindly voice, "what's the matter with you?" it was The Barrow Wight and his sword was now deep red. Smilog avoided the Dead man's eyes and picked up his axe again.

"I've never killed anything before," he said slowly, "I felt so horrid." At that moment a great snarling werewolf leaped at them and Smilog immediately swung his axe wildly, not seeming to care that he was inches away from decapitating The Barrow Wight. The beast fell to the ground and made no further sound. Smilog fell to his knees, "What am I doing?" he cried.

"Courage," said The Wight, "you must have courage. There is nothing for it." he gripped the Dwarf by the arm and lifted him up. The whole graveyard was filled with the enemy and all seemed to be going wrong. The screams of the Mordorians as they were slaughtered filled Smilog's ears and he looked towards the south where he saw his father doing battle with a Wereduck. At last his nerves gave way to a feeling of duty. He leaped into the battle and did great deeds... so he said.

Tollin, with a fit of rage upon him, swung his morning scar left and right. He had come to the very end of the Were army. Behind him only the blackness of Mordor, before him the sea of foes. Sweeping were creatures aside like dead leaves on the forest floor. Even the very largest could not stand before him, his eyes were like fire and his face was terrible to behold. The Barrow Wight saw him as he decapitated a Werewolf. Thinking that next to Tollin would probably be the best bet for safest, he made his way towards the Minotaur, slashing as he went.

Pallando's face was set like stone. He could see that all was going well. If they could defeat this minotaur resistance before the dwarves arrived, then his victory would be assured. But he looked to where Tollin was, and saw that he would to great damage to his plans if not dealt with. None could get close to him. With a wide grin, Pallando poked Alatar and then pointed at the Minotaur. The Brown Wizard nodded and took out his bow.

With a suddenness that made some Were creatures step back, Tollin stopped his slaughter. The Barrow Wight rushed over to see what was happening, but two Mordorians stopped him. A long blue arrow stuck out from Tollin's chest. It burned him and was buried deep. He raised his Morning Star and swooped it across the line of foes that now approached, but another arrow soon hit him. Falling to his knees, Tollin cried aloud. The Were Creatures stepped back and whimpered slightly as he took up his weapon and killed three more.

A third and a fourth arrow soon followed. Tollin fell to the ground at the last and did no more. Satisfied, Allatar gave no more thought to him and turned his attentions to the rest of the battle. The Barrow Wight, on the other hand, dashed to Tollin's side and saw that he yet lived.

"Come on, old chap," he sniffed, "stiff upper lip, wot-wot?" Tollin smiled vaguely and looked up at the sky.

"It's too late," Tollin sighed, "the arrows are poisoned anyway. My mind is going, I can feel it. Farewell, you old Wight. Do not vanish in the sunlight. Be sure to haunt your old barrow for many years. As for me, I go to a long rest. At the least, I have not spent my last moments in that blasted labyrinttthhhh. If only that Dwarf were here, I could thank him properly. Farewell, my friend, farewell"

The winds of change continued to blow, aided by the very large fans some of the Were-creatures had chosen to bring to the battle. Panakeia found the winds most annoying, as no matter which way she turned, her hair ended up in her eyes, sending her arrows (conveniently abandoned by an unnamed archer, who, mid-battle, had been recruited for the Mordorian Ollimpic Archery Team and so left the fighting behind) wild.

"Sorry." She shot another arrow in the air, but where it landed, she knew not where. Up and up it went into the sky, until it could be seen no longer. Most likely, it did not land in the side of an enemy.*

The Were-creatures pressed in from all sides. Panakeia was nearly out of arrows. What did it matter anyway? Outnumbered as they were, they were doomed. She ducked behind a tombstone with Elempí.

"What can we do? We're trapped and practically unarmed. Is this really the end?"

*It was later determined by the use of highly sophisticated and anakronistic physics equations that Panakeia's arrow was launched at an angle of exactly 72.6583 degrees from the graveyard surface with an initial velocity of 23.6 meters per second. Therefore, it should have followed the usual laws of projectile motion and landed 32.8 meters away from its starting point in Panakeia's borrowed bow after 4.658 seconds of travel. This, of course, does not account for air resistance, which was greater than usual on this day due to the effect of the winds of change.

No arrow was found in that location, but it is said that a mysterious arrow landed that day in a tiny Mordorian village far from the battle, and became the inspiration for a collection of love poetry. Was it the same arrow? To this day, the answer is not known.

Elempi knew that he no longer had the powers of Anakron, yet he had healed Smilog. It didn't make sense. How could it have happened? Had Smilog somehow healed himself? Did he have perhaps an accelerated recontitution of which he himself was unaware? Or did this have something to do with Illamatar? The moment the thought of Illamatar came into his mind, his hair folicles (those that remained) started tingling. Maybe it really was Illamatar!

Well, it was good information, if it were true, to keep in his hip pocket, as it were, for later. In the meantime, there were missiles of various kinds flying hither and yon, Panakeia loved him, and Luggie was being an ayessess yet again, and the blue wizards were brown, or was it purple? And planes flying high in the sky were sending out flares spelling strange words in the sky: "Mardil's Anti-Anakronism Innoculations - Free for the Taking" It felt like Arm-a-gettin'. So Elempi whipped out his #2 pencil - and flourished it in the air all around him as if it were a real sword. Too bad it didn't do him any good. Instead, it caught the attention of one of the Wizards, and a skein of power came at him just as his pencil was beginning a four beat measure to the tune of The Eighteen Twelve Overture playing in his mind. The skein made contact with the pencil, and .....

..... the skein scattered. Elempi stared at the pencil, unchanged.

"Hmm, do you suppose lead or graphite is proof against spells cast by rebellious Istari?"

"Duck!" cried Panakeia from not far away, and Elempi did so.

"No!" cried Panakeia again. "Duck at 3 o'clock!"

"Oh, that kind of duck," Elempi commented, but was tackled to the ground by said Duck before he could do a thing. Duck proceeded to beat on Elempi with its bill, armed as it was with rather long, dripping canines. Elempi's face screwed up in disgust at the thought of a teeth-equipped duck even as the stuffing was being beaten out of him.

"Watch out for the glasses!" Elempi cried.

"Oh, sorry," said the duck, and proceeded to smash up his face but studiously avoiding his glasses.

"Much thanks," said Elempi through puffing lips. He wondered if Luggie might get his manhood back in time to save him. Then he passed out.

The dead body of Tollin lay, as most dead bodies do, still. Most dead bodies, mind you. One dead body was stood up besides him with a sword drawn, beating off the approaches of several were creatures. The Barrow Wight swung his golden sword this way and that, slicing heads, arms and faces wherever he saw them. But as he laughed in the midst of battle, he heard the neighing of a horse. To his horror, a great purple rider drew up before him, holding aloft a mighty sword.

The Farsegul laughed and pulled back its hood, yet there was no head, only a small potato floating where a brain should probably have been. Above the potato was a crown seemingly made of lettuce. It laughed again and said in a voice cold and terrible, "Old fool! Do you not know death when you see it?"

"Well, actually-" began the wight,

"Die now and curse in vain! This is my hour!" The sword of the Farsegul burst into flame and its horse let forth a bellow. The flames stopped and the Purple Rider coughed, "Sorry about that," he admitted, "the horse has been eating too many peas. It's got a bit of wind, you see. But anyway, you will die!"

The Pink horse was spurred at the Barrow Wight, but he leaped aside just in time and sliced the head from the hideously dressed creature. Up from the ruin rose the purple figure, its sword in hand and its potato a flame. "You!" he cried, "You have killed my steed!"

"I know," answered the Barrow Wight, "cutting off heads usually does the trick."

"Don't be fascias," snapped the Farsegul, "I am the lord of the purple Riders. The Wizard Emperor, I am. Witch King had been taken apparently." Thus their swords met in battle and for a time, the Barrow Wight was beaten back, and forced to his knees by the strength of the creature. The sword was pointed at the neck of The Barrow Wight, "Dead man," cried the Rider, "Only by a dead sword canst thou die. So Die now, be you living or dead." He raised the blade to strike, but he stopped.

Horns! Horns on the hills! The Dwarves had arrived!

***

The skies were filled with strange signs and messages and it was not long before Smilog's head began to swim. Khuz was laughing in the heat of battle, hewing off feet and heads when they came low enough. Smilog felt sick. So much blood. So many screams. He had got into diplomacy to avoid this sort of thing and now he was in the thick of the thing he had most feared. Chopping another Werewolf in half he cried aloud, "How long will this night endure?"

"About five hours," said a voice, "Fear not, oh Smilog, son of Khuz, the time is coming when you must face great perils."

"No thanks," he replied, "great pearls, now that's another matter."

"Listen to me," the voice grew louder, "not for nought didst thou find thy way to being assigned to Mordor. Indeed, hast thou not seen the signs in the sky? The Wizard's fall is near."

"Now, do you mean 'wizard's' plural or singular?" asked Smilog as another Were duck fell to his axe, "because there are a bleeding lot of wizards around and I for one would-" He stopped and listened. The horns were heard on the winds. The Dwarves were near! The Dwarven host was here!

Upon entering the graveyard, Skittles tripped and fell into an open grave.

She landed facedown upon a fresh corpse, which was somewhat unnerving. The body was wrapped in cloth, but a stench still clung to the obscured figure. She struggled free and stood up, panting. "Hissyfit!" she cried. "Hissyfit! I've fallen!"

In a few minutes, the triangular face of her trusty friend appeared at the edge of the rectangular patch of sky. "Apparently," Hissyfit remarked dryly.

Hissyfit yawned. "I don't have opposable thumbs, I don't see what you expect me to do."

"Find someone who does!"

"Oh very well," Hissyfit sighed, looking very put out. Her face disappeared, and Skittles settled down to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait some more.

For a time, Skittles amused herself by forming shapes out of the damp, freshly churned earth. Then that became boring, and she peeked inside the wrapping to look at the corpse, which looked about as good as it smelled. She let her imagination wander, envisioning various ways to kill Hissyfit. The stench became more and more overwhelming, and darkness took her. The stars wheeled overhead, and every minute was as long as a life age of the earth.

Eventually, she began to see the folly in waiting. For a cat. So she mustered all the strength in her pale arms and dug her hands into the loamy walls of her prison. For a moment or two it seemed as if she would be able to scale said walls, but then it came loose in her hands and she fell back. Cursing, she stood and brushed herself off.

A wereduck flew overheard, blood dripping from its beak, and Skittles gaped upwards. New resolve struck her, and she screamed like a madwoman (fittingly) as she again attempted to claw her way to freedom.

Several more times she flung herself at the walls, only for the dirt to tumble down around her. This gave Skittle an idea, for she was both insane and resourceful. She unwrapped the body and wrenched one arm from its decaying socket. It made a rather disgusting squelchy noise, but Skittles had no time to waste on squeamishness. She began to hack away at the dirt with the exposed humerus, causing a cascade of falling earth to accumulate around her.

Eventually, after an immeasureable time spent digging with her macabre tool, Skittles succeeded in widening the grave and knocking down enough dirt to raise her towards the surface. She dropped the arm and scrambled out of the grave.

Hissyfit lay nearby, curled up on a fleece blanket, purring in her sleep.

Skittles said something to her, which I cannot repeat, but roughly translated, meant, "What are you doing?"

Hissyfit awoke and yawned. "Oh, so sorry," she said. "Someone just happened to leave that blanket lying there and I was done for."

"Argh!" Skittles cried, but made no move to act on her previous fantasies. She could not harm her somewhat-faithful companion, as much as she might wish to.

She spat mud out of her mouth and wiped her face, then, drawing forth a switchblade, went to look for someone to punish.

She came across an army of Orcs, and slaughtered them. Then she lay waste to a flock of wereducks. A pack of werewolves sought to eat her, and she left them in various stages of bloodied ruin. She met a terrifying creature with a bouquet of flowers for a head, and sprayed it with industrial strength weedkiller. Insert whatever other foes were lurking about the graveyard, and imagine a suitable fate for them [here].

Eventually, exhausted, she lay down her weapons, and fell asleep underneath a tombstone in the likeness of the Eiffel Tower. She had many dreams as she slumbered there; one in which she floated on a sea of poppies, one in which Tom Felton professed his undying love for her whilst juggling flaming accordians, and one in which a wheel of cheese came to life and tried to eat her.

Alli caught sight of Skittles through the battle and from then on, her almost reliable friend had her undivided attention. A mistake had not been made when Roggie declared the woman warlordess, for she was fully more than capable of rendering once terrifying armies to states much worse than death. Alli watched bloody piles of former bad guys whimpering throughout the graveyard as Skittles passed them by, with Hissyfit daintily avoiding getting blood on her paws.

Not very long later, Alli saw Skittle fall down upon a grave and rushed to her aid, all enemies between them having been conveniently hacked and slashed. Alli knelt beside her and wiped away blood (which turned out not to belong to Skittles) and found herself at knife point.

"Skittles, it's me, Alli. Please don't flick the blade."

"How do I know," Skittles said accusingly, "that you are not just another werecreature cleverly disguised to look like Alli?"

"Because... um... you cat likes me?"

And true enough, Hissyfit was twining about Alli in an affectionate and distinctly undignified manner. Alli had always been this way with cats, really, and she was happy to know that Hissyfit was no exception. Until Skittles spoke again.

"Yes, well... Hissyfit is probably now WereHissyfit and is just cosseting up to her own kind." Skittles moved a finger threateningly over the switch of the blade and Alli refused to lose her immense cool by looking nervous.

"Come off it, Skit, I could tell you your life story if you wanted to. I'm the one who bliddy hired you for this job and let me tell you it's pretty you got us out of that battle. Why weren't you here sooner? I mean, now that you've killed all the bad guys, we can end the climactic battle scene and everyone can write their denouements so we can finish this story once and for all!"

"You woke me up." Skittles muttered obtusely.

"Like you were really sleeping when I got here." Alli shot back.

"I was dreaming of cheese."

"I'll get you a big brick of the stuff later, just come on, will you? The Phantom's got some concluding to do with Roggie before we can write 'El Fin' and forget this adventure ever really happened."

"You employ ghosts!?" The knife was again at Alli's throat.

"No... I mean..."

"Who is The Phantom?"

"I don't know. I mean... I've never heard the name before in my life. It just came to me. I think..."

The graveyard around them, bloody and dark, twisted, and perfect for not very nice occurances, suddenly turned the most brilliant shade of Good Gold (a quality of light trademarked by Deities Unlimited), cleaning itself faster than Tom Felton could have flicked a wand and said that cleaning spell Tonks used on Harry's stuff in that chapter in Book Five where the Order shows up at Privet Drive. Alli looked in wonder at the new and improved setting: graves stood straight, fresh graves were filled with dignity, and daffodils and daisies sprouted up with seemingly unnatural speed. The sun came out ("But I thought it was night?") and the world seemed to play that dawn melody, you know the one, it's got flutes to symbolize birdsong, and maybe an organ or something, but it does that thing with the crescendo and then a flock of song birds flitter away into the changing sky while maybe a small herd of deer blinks pastorally from their perfectly innocent persuits...

Alli was slightly blinded by the Good Gold, but she grinned.

"Illamatar. You couldn't have helped sooner?"

"Baa."

"Come off it. You know English. You even know Mordorian and Gondorian. Get with it. And who's The Phantom, and what's he got to do with Roggie?"

"Oh fine." The etherial llama who had appeared between Alli and Skittles, harmlessly impaling his incorporial form on Skittles's unopened knife, settled into place. "I thought that since the battle ended (Good Guys winning, of course), and the werecreatures were destroyed, and all danger had passed, I could give you back your Seer powers without it unnecessarily effecting the outcome of the story."

"Are you kidding me? Do you REALIZE how much it would have helped if I'd been able to foresee any of this stuff? Do you REALIZE HOW MANY PEOPLE WOULDN'T HAVE DIED!??!?!"

Alli shrieked hysterically, taking out her anger on Illamatar. He merely yawned.

"Go forth, young Alli," (she grumbled about being called young), "and finish this story. A contract must be signed and all characters must have, what we call in the Undying Lands, Their Final Word."

And so it was that every single character, none excluded, was conveniently transported to wherever their author had in mind to write their final scene (or two, if they're just going to be that way), with no care paid to logic, continuity, or anything else.

When the army of the Dwarves had met the Were creatures there had been an almighty noise. Swords smashed, Axes hacked through heads, shields were splintered and there was the ever present shouting of dwarven voices. Dashing through the field, Smilog had met with the Dwarven King, Dave, and had told him all he knew of Mount Zoom and the plot of the Istari.

The Lord of the Farse Gul rode forth and stopped before the Dwarven King and Smilog. He laughed and threw back his hood, revealing, once again, the potato head and odd crown.

"Now comes the hour of doom!" cried the Farsegul King, "by my hand, oh Dwarven King, your doom now comes." He raised his sword and let forth a great screech of bone chilling depth and pain. The Potato headed one leaped down from the horse and stepped towards the Dwarven King. Dave lifted his axe in challenge to the creature, but a kick from the Lord of the Farsegul rendered the Dwarf floor bound. Placing his foot on the neck of Dace, the Farse gul raised his sword and plunged it down.

"No-ooo!" cried a voice, old and strain. Khuz leaped in the way of the sword and took the blow to his heart. Smilog cried out and swung his axe at the Farsegul, but his blade passed through the neck area.

"HA-ha-ha!" boomed the Farsegul, "No living creature can kill me!"

"Then its a good job I am there then, wot-wot?" The Barrow Wight stood before them with a bow and arrow. He fired. The arrow shot through the air with odd precision for a man with only half a left eye. Straight through the potato it sailed, carrying it far off into the middle of the battle where it had fallen upon a torch, burst into flames and been hacked at by frightened Were creatures. One Were duck picked up a slice and tasted it. He was about to shout 'Urica!' as he had just invented crisps, but was carefully cut to pieces by an insane Skittles.

The Farsegul fell pathetically to the ground and did not move another muscle. If it had any muscles. Which it didn't. Ahem...

Khuz lay dead upon the feild of battle, the rest of the Dwarves flooded into the Graveyard, but soon found that they were not needed. Smilog knelt next to his father and looked into his dead eyes. The Dwarf slowly stood to his feet and then dropped his axe to the ground. Tears filled his eyes as he watched the Good Gold stream into the Graveyard. The Barrow Wight threw the bow and arrow away and walked up to where Smilog stood.

All was still and silent. Looking back, The Barrow Wight could see that they were nearly half a mile away from the Grave yard. The barren wastes of Mordor was all about them, only a refection of the good gold came their way. Smilog was silent. The Barrow Wight lifted his head and nearly fell back, a tall figure stood before them, his wild hair and terrible eyes looked like the very pits of Angband. Blue fire seemed to envelop him and the staff he held seemed to be made of white stone.

"Death!" cried Alatar, "Death take you all! DEATH!" he lunged at Smilog, but the Brown Wizard was stopped by the Barrow Wight who held forth his golden sword. The cold dead light that had once filled the dead man's eyes was gone, now there was a bright white light that shone forth. Alatar stepped back.

"Leave this place," said the Wight, "you have no business here. Let the dead lie in peace." In a flash, Alatar vanished. The Barrow Wight sighed and looked to Smilog. The Dwarf was walking away towards the north. "Where are you going?" The Barrow Wight asked.

"I know not," replied Smilog, "so much has happened these last few days that I do not understand. They say that there is a man upon the Mountains of Cirath Ungol who can help those who have lost their lives and yet live. They call him Séar the Seer in Gondor, others call him Phil the Career counselor."

"What on earth do you mean?"

"Mount Zoom is not my place. It never was. Roggie I always despised and avoided. My father was right, that job killed me. Although, it is he that has died in life. I live and yet know not why. Where is Tollin?"

"He is dead."

"Ah." Smilog sat down on a stone and sighed, "I thought as much, you know. What would have happened if I had never found him in that Labyrinth? I expect he cursed my name with his last breath."

"Nay, not so." The Barrow Wight placed his sword back in its place, "He thanked you for letting him live his last days in insanity." There was a pause. "Or something like that. Now, Séar the Seer, you say. Which way is he?"

Never again was Smilog the Dwarf seen in Mordor or Gondor. But, on the 23rd of December, five years later, The Barrow Wight returned to his home with an old, shaggy Dwarf holding a broom. It was said that the Barrows had never been so clean.

From graveyard battlescene nightmare to Good Golden Day Elempi suddenly found himself in autumn mildness amidst the Eat all yen fountains of Can Sing Ton Guard Inns. Elempi was standing before a yellow stone gazebo which stood at one end of the fountain pools. He looked away form the building and saw Panakeia at the far end of the walkway between two pools, and she was dressed in white, holding a bouquet.

"Panakeia? What happened? How did we get here? Where'd you get that awesome gown?"

"Psst! Anakron!"

Anakron? Elempi turned around and saw Lûgnût standing proudly in a black tuxedo (an orc in a tuxedo is an incongruence that one cannot get prepared for), and Elempi gasped at the sight. But he kept enough wits about him to say, "Don't call me that! I'm Elempi!"

Elempi had noticed the orc dressed in a saffron gown, but had tried to ignore it, for there is only one thing harder to get used to than an orc in a tux.

"If this is a wedding," Elempi argued obtusely, "where are all the guests and what about the music?"

"Do you expect them to stand in the pools?" Luggie protested. "Look!" Luggie gestured to all four sides of the Eat all yen fountains, where stood hundreds of orcs, trolls, dwarves, humans, and Gondorians, too. Even Roggie stood at the back of the crowd, nodding benevolently. There were Alli, Aimíe, Skittles, and Igor.

"But I didn't propose properly! And where's my ring?"

At that moment, triumphant organ music let loose from the gazebo and anyone that had not been standing stood up. Panakeia started her slow march down the central walkway. All eyes were on her.

Panakeia felt the heat of the crowd's gaze on her white-clad figure. She blushed. This was all so unexpected! One moment, she had been on the edge of defeat, lost in the midst of a battle and the next - she was here, wearing the exact gown she'd spotted in a shop window (and fitting perfectly!), and waiting to walk down the aisle at last. How was it possible? Was this even real, or had she indeed fallen in the battle, leaving this scene to be the last fevered imagining of her dying brain?

A whiff of chicken-scented breath from the Orcish maid of honor assured Panakeia that this was no dream.

Elempí's jaw dropped. His eyes bugged out. He looked very unprofessorial. Especially in a groom's tux. What was Panakeia doing? It was obvious that she was high tailing it, as impressively as any white tail deer, out of the wedding. But what was she doing it for? Elempí was so dumbstruck that he didn't even bother to correct his ungrammatical thought.

Once over the initial shock, his eyes began to rove here and there, noticing the huge throng gathered there, half of them watching the receding high tail of Panakei'a headdress, half of them watching Elempí to see what his reaction would be. How embarrassing! He wanted the Fountains to leap up and drag him down under water. He was humiliated. Humilitated, even. Homogenized and horrificated. Subliminealized. Stumped. His legs gave way and he fell in a heap on the walkway.

"Woe is me. She doesn't love me. She has run away because she has realized just in time that she doesn't want to marry me." Someone kicked him in the leg. Hard. "Ouch!"

"Get up, you ninny!" cried Lûgnût. "She wants you to chase her down! Any orc can see that! She's behaving like any lovestruck orc-lass, she wants to be caught and tackled and pulled brought back by the whisker hairs."

"Thank Illamatar! You'd make an awful one! Now go get your orc-lass and bring her back!"

"My woman, you mean."

"Whatever, just do it!" Lûgnût turned to the crowd, who had hunkered down close as they could to catch every word. "What do you say everybody, should Elempí go tackle his bride?!?"

"Yes!!!!" came the roaring reply, "Tackle the bride!" The words formed a chant. "TACKLE - THE - BRIDE! TACKLE - THE - BRIDE! TACKLE - THE - BRIDE!"

"All right! All right! Enough already!" Elempí dragged himself back to his feet and began to walk the way Panakeia had run.

"You better run!" cried Lûgnût. As if on cue, or queue, or mind the gap, or whatever, the band that had showed up for the reception, "Plink Foyd", started riffing on Lûgnût's words, and the lead singer was really getting into it.

"You better run all night and run all day....! ..... Run Run Run Run Run!" Mysteriously, a Wall started abuilding right behind the group on which videos of screeching lorries and varied misbehaving hooligans careened from scene to scene. Elempí couldn't help but get into the spirit of it, and he began to run.

Many heads turned to watch the spectacle of Panakeia running down the high street in her wedding regalia. It wasn't everyday, after all, that a runaway bride turned up.

Out of breath and with aching feet, Panakeia ducked down an alley and leant against a tiny blue building. She ruefully pulled off she shoes, still sparkling under a layer of dust acquired during her flight. This was not the happily-ever-after ending she had wanted. But neither was the garishly over-perfect wedding she had fled. True, it might have been something taken directly from a magazine. But after so many struggles - the battle, Anakron's identity switch, death and undeath - it wasn't right at all. Panakeia simply wanted to leave Mordor fade into a quiet obscurity with her beloved Elempi, never to be heard from again. Except, perhaps, as a rumor in an epilogue.

But would that ever happen now? Panakeia hoped that Elempi would understand her flight was not about doubts about him, but had only been because she was overwhelmed by the setting. If only he could find her now!

But Panakeia wasn't entirely sure that she could find herself. The route she had taken had been haphazard, and Panakeia hadn't been paying great attention to her path. She was lost. She would have to contact someone - somehow!

The answer came as she looked up at the tiny blue building. Public call. She could try to call someone from there, and hope that she could make it back to the Can Sing Ton Guard Inns in time to explain things. Even if it wasn't exactly what she wanted, the noisy display was better than missing her wedding entirely.

Panakeia tried the door. It wouldn't budge. That made no sense at all. Why would it be locked? She tried again, shoving against the door with all her might, and closed her eyes as a curious tingling sensation passed over her.

When she opened her eyes again, Panakeia gasped. This couldn't be the inside of the tiny box. It just wasn't possible.

"What?" she cried.

"What?" came a louder, equally surprised answer from behind an odd structure in the centre of the spacious room. A man in a suit came out from behind the...thing, waving a small, blue-glowing device in front of him. "Not again. Why is it always brides?" He waved the device in fron of Panakeia, and she stepped back.

"What?" she said again, meaning to say, "What is that? And what is this place? And...what are you talking about?" For the man was speaking again, and Panakeia couldn't make any sense out of his rapid commentary.

"Been around things pulled out of time, have you? Leaves a trace. Particles. Sort of a magnetic effect. Must have been what pulled you in here. There. That ought to fix it." He kept waving the little glowing thing in front of her.

Panakeia gasped again as a tiny glowing stream of dust rose from her gown and trickled away across the room.

"You wouldn't happen to want to go to Chiswick, would you?"

"Chiswick? What? No. I was in the Can Sing Ton Guard Inns."

"At your wedding. And you don't want to be late. Right then!" He ran back to the middle of the room and threw a switch.

There was a sudden lurch, and Panakeia nearly lost her footing. Then another lurch, and the man ran back across the room to fling open the door. They were in the Guard Inns, only a little way from the Eat all yen fountains.

"There you are." Panakeia, feeling rather dazed, stepped out the door. She whirled to see it close behind her, and her jaw dropped as the blue box faded into thin air.

She continued to stare, spellbound, at the spot where the box had been, until a noise from the fountains roused her from her daze. Lûgnût and a few scattered guests were running up to her.

The orc started to ask a thousand questions, but Panakeia cut it off with one of her own.

"Where's Elempi?"

"Tsk, tsk," the orc smirked. "Ran away from your own wedding."

"Where is he?" she repeated crossly, in no mood for delay. She needed to explain to Elempi.

Elempí ran until his legs ached, then jogged until he could not keep his breath, then walked until he realized that he had no idea where Panakeia might have got to.

"Well that was ripping silly!" he said aloud to himself in his best imitation of Limey dialect (such things were notorious in Dweomer ridden Mordor).

He looked around. He was near a big building surrounded by a tall black wrought iron fence, outside of which was a sign reading Wessman Stabby. A red-robed almbudsman orwhateveryoucallit stood by a gate in the fence, allowing some people through and turning others away (sometimes with an entertainingly swift kick). Elempí went up to him.

"Pardon me sir," he attempted in his best imitation British, "did you happen to see a - erm - bride run by?"

The redrobed man's thick gray brow rose. "A bride, you say?"

"Yes," Elempí nodded encouragingly.

"Running, you say?"

"Yes sir," Elempí nodded even more encouragingly.

"Whatever for?"

Elempí sighed. He was going to have to explain. "We are to marry, sir."

"I dare say not, if she's running, don't you know!" The almbudsman laughed at his own wittiness.

"Sir," Elempí attempted again with extreme patience, "did you see her?"

"Ah, um .... No. I should say not."

"Oh. Well, thank you anyway. I must be-"

"But there was a white robed nun came in just before you got here, and I thought to meself how frilly a nun's getup it seemed."

"Well that might be her then, wot?"

"I'm thinking that it might indeed."

"Spendid! May I go in?"

"I should say not!"

"No? Why not, sir?"

"It's a special day. Rites and observances and all that. Can't go in if you're looking for your bride."

"Oh. But if I was going in to observe the rites, then I could go in?"

"Yes."

"Well then, may I go in?"

"What for?"

"To observe the rites this special day, sir!"

"By all means. In you go!"

"Many thanks, sir!"

"Mind you watch out for the statues! They're a bit lively today!"

Elempí hustled into the Stabby, wondering what on earth the man could mean. He passed through the oversized double doors and found himself in a spacious hall. All manner of men and women were walking about, wearing all manner of styles and periods of costume. There were many empty pedestals. And all the personages seemed to have a gray cast to them. That would make it relatively easy to find a white dressed nun, he thought. One grayish fellow seemed friendly enough.

"Hello there, I'm wondering, sir, if you might have seen-"

"Greetings. And who might you be?" The man's hair was wild and worn over his ears. He wore a frock coat and seemed in bad health.

"I'm Elempí of Umbar, sir, and who might you be?"

"William Wilbur of Forth of Fifth."

"You don't say!"

"I just did."

"Well, so you did, sir. Did you happen to see a nun dressed in white? Or a bride who looked like a nun? Or a n-" Elempí stopped, confused.

"I did. She went to the poets' corner." William put his hand to his mouth to whisper conspiratorially. "Watch out for the busts!"

"Many thanks!" Elempí grinned. He wondered what busts the man was referring to as he made his way down the long, tall, and relatively narrow hallway in the direction of what was supposed to be the poets' corner. He hoped he would know it when he saw it. And he hoped Panakeia would be there.

Amdist the celebrating throngs gathered in Wessman Stabby, there was one very forlorn figure snuffling in a nondescript corner of the building. Indeed, with her drab brown dress and bloodshot eyes, she looked as nondescript as the dusty corner.

And who, of all the celebrants, had reason to be sad? It was, of course, Panakeia. But how had she gone from bridalwear to yesterday's laundry?

After arriving back at the Guard Inns to find Elempi as missing as she had been earlier, Panakeia had fled once again, this time to her little flat. She had to search for Elempi, and there was no way to run an efficient trek through the city in her gown. And so she quickly changed to traveling clothes and then, as she left again, handed her elaborate wedding dress off to a passing Orc whom she noticed looking at it longingly. The dress had only brought her bad luck, despite being quite fashionable, and Panakeia didn't want it. And then she went off in search of her beloved.

The search proved to be more challenging than she had anticipated. Elempi was nowhere near the Guard Inns, as far as she could tell. And worse, the ever present crowds had grown denser. No matter how much she tried to move against it, Panakeia found that the crowd was slowly and irresistibly pulling her along to the southwest, and before long, she found that she had been shuffled into the vast halls of Wessman Stabby, where a celebration of some kind was in full swing. Even the Orc who had claimed her gown was there. But she didn't see Elempi.

Seeing the dress reminded Panakeia of the day's disaster, and she hurried away to as distant a corner as she could manage to have a good cry. She did not know how long she sat there before a gentle tap on the shoulder brought her back to reality.

"I wouldn't go there if I were you," said a voice. Elempi looked around. "Over here. No, here. No no no! Over here." Elempi found the source of the voice. It was a dreaded bust. None other than Sir Water Scotch & Rye, to be precise.

"I always thought that scowl was very lifelike," Elempi remarked.

"Of course it is! Now don't go over there."

"Over where?"

Sir Water Scotch & Rye indicated to his right with a nod of his head, which set his shoulders rattling on the pedestal.

"Careful!"

"Never you mind! Just don't go over there!"

"Why ever not?" Elempi asked.

"You'll be stepping on deadmen's bones, that's why ever not!"

"Erm, that is hardly avoidable in this great Stabby, don't you think?"

The bust rolled its eyes. "You do not want to step on that particular grave."

Elempi went over for a look. Jeff Chaw Sir. "Shouldn't that be Sir Jeff Chaw? And why have I never heard of him?"

A deep groan came from beneath the ancient stones.

"You stepped on him," the bust accused.

"Did not."

"Maybe not with your feet, but with your words."

"That hardly counts."

"It counts most of all!"

"Whatever. Have you seen a bride?"

"A bride? Here? Whatever for? There's no wedding today."

"My bride ran away. Cold feet and all that. I'm trying to find her."

"I'll tell you what I saw if you get off that grave."

"I'm not on the grave."

"Liar."

Elempi looked down. The groan came again from deep beneath his feet. "Why, the stones moved!"

"Hmph!" cried Sir Water Scotch & Rye.

Elempi stepped off the grave. "So what did you see?"

"Nothing."

Elempi groaned. In harmony with the voice from beneath the stones. It was actually pretty nice to hear. It sounded a bit like 'Illamatar Save the Queen'. Well, it would have to a pack of hounds. At any rate, there was no white gowned bride in the Poets Corner, so Elempi forsook the place and Sir Water Scotch & Rye and ambled on up some steps beside massive sarcophagi in honor of much dead royalty, until he stopped, listening to a sound that seemed familiar somehow. It was coming from a little corner tucked away between the tombs of Deadwood the Confettior and Henpecked IV. Someone was sniffling. Crying, even. The someone was not in the white bridal gown, but it would not hurt to ask. Maybe this person had heard from Panakeia and was weeping in sympathy. Poppycock, you twit, Elempi said to himself. But why not?

That voice! Panakeia would know it anywhere. How Elempi came to find her, she didn't know or care. He had found her, and that was enough. She leapt to her feet and threw both arms around him, nearly knocking Elempi off his feet.

"You found me! You found me! Oh, you wonderful you." Passersby in the Stabby started to gather to watch the impending happy ending.

Elempi looked rather startled, but happy at the turn of the events. There was one question, however.

"Why'd you run away from me?"

Panakeia's eyes and mouth went round. "Away from you?" she cried, and her arms circled tighter. "Never! It was just Roggie, and the Orcs, and the crowd, and all the fuss and bother. But no! I didn't run from you. And..." - here her voice dropped to a whisper - "I'll never run away again."

There were no words for the remainder of the reunion. The watchers cheered, and from above, someone dropped white rose petals. As luck would have it, the observance for the day was a general wedding ceremony for all comers, and Panakeia and Elempi hardly knew what happened before being handed an official triplicate stamped form proclaimed to all the world that they were, in fact, wed.

"Ready for another adventure?" asked Elempi.

"We've already started one," Panakeia replied with a bat of her lashes.

And so they left, faded into the crowd. It was said that they eventually found their slow way out of Mordor and came at last to Umbar where, as must happen at the close of every comedy, they lived happily ever after.